On Wisconsin

            I followed the Little Red Roadster to a stately, old house in one of Lincoln's older neighborhoods. The building stood out, to me, because it hadn't been converted to apartments like a lot of the big houses in this part of town. To most people, it probably looked like the last refuge of an old lady with 17 cats and grandkids that never visited.

            The house was surrounded by a wrought iron fence, topped with Romeo spikes. There was a gate at the driveway, that the blond driver of the roadster had to pause at to enter a code into a keypad. The gate swung inward to allow her and Mr. DuMont to proceed up a driveway that lead to a large garage that had obviously been added well after the house's construction. The garage door rolled up as the gate opened. My quarry pulled into the garage and the door rolled down as the gate swung closed. I decided that doing a bit of peeping was in order.

            I have a small, deep-tinted window on the side of the van. The tint is dark enough to resemble concentrated midnight on a moonless night. Inside, I have a binocular mount rigged so I can sit in one of the swivel chairs and peep through my Zeiss binoculars in comfort and stability. Physical, stability, anyway.

            I checked out the house and surrounding grounds. Ground floor, second floor, it appeared to have a livable attic space. I swept the front yard area. The grass was well-maintained, edged. There were no trees near the fence, and now flower beds or decorative plants anywhere. The windows were all shut and curtained. I checked out the ground level. At both corners of the house, and over the front door were mounted security cameras. I bet the monitors and security staff were set up in a basement playroom.

            I focused on the front door. The stairs leading up to the porch were flanked by wrought iron handrails. Subtle, easy way to control access to the front. The door looked to be one of those solid, oak numbers. Heavy, metal strap hinges gave the door an antique appearance. At eye-level, where a peep-hole, or portal would be, a metal motif was mounted. It appeared to be a sea-creature of some sort, octopod with the letters, 'HAFGUFA' surrounding it. I made a mental note to look it up, or ask Lloyd, since I couldn't even Scrabble a word out of it, I mean, I came up with Ahaguff, but, I bet it would be challenged.

            I snooped for a bit longer, decided that I would have to drive around to see if it abutted an alley, or had any other back access when I caught movement from the side of the house. A guy with a polo shirt similar to ZZZip's driver strolled toward the front gate. He was big enough, not huge, but big enough to get a gig as a bouncer in a bar where fights broke out on a bad weekend. The Doberman shepherd that trotted alongside him at a precise distance concerned me a lot more.

            This place intrigued me. I didn't feel the compulsion to get inside, yet, but it sparked my interest. Big house, security measures, controlled access, uniforms with a unifying logo that bore a striking resemblance to the motif on the door. I was beginning to think I had some good news and some bad news for Mrs. DuMont. The good news was that I didn't think he was fooling around with another woman. The bad news was that I had no idea what he was fooling around with.

            I called it a day and went back to write up my findings. I had a weird feeling that I was on the surface of something that went a lot deeper than should, or that I wanted to get into.

            Lloyd was waiting for me, in the office. He had all sorts of his electronic crap strewn over my desk. He looked like he was researching something.

            "Just don't spill your coffee, or anything," I said. "My creditors don't like stains on their invoices."

            He just harrumphed, but moved his cup to a more stable location on the desk.

            "Whatcha doing?" I asked as I sat in the government issue, grey, steel chair, that probably belonged to the State Pen, once.   

            "Trying to find anything that will make me think that Nebraska will beat Wisconsin, Saturday. Right now, I'm down to hoping the entire Badger defense gets food poisoning."

            "We'll take them to Hi-Way Diner. It always works for me when I want to clear out the system."

            He barely raised an eyebrow. "They have a good defense against the run, which doesn't really matter, since we don't like to use our running backs, for anything. They have a good pass rush, which means that Tommy will be running for his life all day, since he'll try to put it up 40 times."

            "Five of those will be called run plays, though." Lloyd shot me a sharp look. I raised my hands in mock surrender. He was in no mood to be messed with.

            "It's not like Wisconsin is at the same level they were, last year. No Melvin Gordon, they only put 6 points on the board against Iowa, at home."

            "This Nebraska team is a blowout away from fracturing. I don't want to use the term 'must win"--

            "Pfft. Every game at Nebraska is a 'must win'", I interrupted. "This one maybe more so than others, but the beast must be fed."

            "Oh yeah, 'The Beast'. More like the Kraken, you mean."

            I perked up. "What do you mean, the Kraken?"

            "You've never heard of the Kraken. It's a shadowy, all-powerful group of Husker Boosters that have their fingers in everything. No one outside of conspiracy nutters believe they exist. It's like the Bilderburg group, The Illuminati, The Templars, CIA COINTELPRO, that sort of thing."

            I was going to mention my findings to him, but thought better of it. "Back on task. You think there is absolutely no way Nebraska can win on Saturday."

            "Nope."

            "Riley's already lost the plot?"

            "Yep. Well, I don't think he had far to go to lose the plot. I don't think he's a good coach, or his staff isn't very good, either way, he chose them, so he's on the hook."

            "So, for the sake of argument, what does he have to do, to win back Huskerfan?"

            "To quote Al Davis, 'Just win, baby'".

            "Ewwww," I said. "You quoted a Raider. I feel all dirty, now."

            "It's true. And you know it's true."

            "Yeah," I conceded. "You know what else is true?"

            "What?"

            "The torches and pitchforks crowd is going to have to chill out. Dude is here for at least three years. If he ends up flaming, the new Chancellor hires a new AD and he (or she, gasp) gets to hire a new Football coach. If he bottoms out, say, 2-10, this year, and goes 6-6 and goes to the Astroglide Superlube Bowl, and then 9-4 with a Gator Bowl Appearance, he's showing 'steady improvement'."

            "Stop."

            "You know it's true. Even if he hiccups, in year four, and goes 8-5, or 7-6, and then goes 10-4 with a loss in the B1G Championship game, the program 'is on track', and 'headed in the right direction."

            "I said stop it."

            "Hold on. Year six, everyone on the team is his recruit. They go 15-1, with that one loss being a heartbreaker in the National Championship Game. That's when he retires and the cycle starts all over again."

            "If Nebraska is ranked in the top 25 at the end of any of those 9+ win seasons, we'd consider it good, and that he has earned his way, here."

            "Dude, I said. "If they go 2-10 this year, and less than 6-6 next year, your still going to be stuck with him for at least the first half of 2017. He's not going anywhere. Complain about him, bitch about his play calling, write your Congressman, whatever. I'm betting he will be here 25 games from now. That's the rest of this season, all of next season, and into 2017."

            Lloyd thought about it for a minute. "Bet on it?"

            "Sure," I said. "I will buy your drinks and cigars, at Jake's, for the entire 2017 season, if Mike Riley is not the head coach, 25 games from right now. Except in the cases of death or illness. I'm talking about him being fired or 'resigning' in the best interests of the team."

            Lloyd stood up to shake on the best. "You are so on. One exception. If he's gone before that point, you buy for that season or seasons, as well."

            I grabbed his hand. "It's a bet. Now, tell me how much we're going to lose by, this week."

            Lloyd glanced at his notes. "We're favored by one-and-a-half, at home. Vegas gives us three points for playing at home. Joel Stave will look like Aaron Rodgers in the fourth quarter. Go on an 85 yard drive, for Wisconsin to kick a chip-shot field goal, their fifth of the day, to win 15-13."

            "If that happens," I said, "I'd better start padding my expense accounts in order to pay for your drinks and smokes."